


Thinking of You

by TheEndeavorNetwork



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Sherlock Holmes/Irene Adler, Jim being entirely inappropriate, M/M, Masturbation, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock is bi and demiromantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29723280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEndeavorNetwork/pseuds/TheEndeavorNetwork
Summary: Jim Moriarty breaks into Sherlock's flat now and then. Today, he decides to leave something special behind.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Kudos: 27





	Thinking of You

**Author's Note:**

> Like many others, I was inspired by "You have a surprisingly comfortable bed."
> 
> Literally uploading this the same day I wrote it, which is a phenomenon for me.

Whenever Jim stopped by 221B, he didn’t really have a set plan. He looked around and left hints to tease Sherlock. He wore a cologne that would leave a faint trace in the air. He shifted a few items slightly out of place. He wanted to remind the detective that he was always watching, hovering like a vulture. Forever present, till death do them part.

He turned the knob and stepped into the flat. It smelled like them. Hair product, furniture, fabric, and the strange things Sherlock dragged in sometimes. Jim closed the door behind him and meandered over to Sherlock’s chair. He dropped into it and took everything in. The room wasn’t much changed since the last time he was here. His hands rubbed in circles on the armrests.

After a few minutes, he went into the kitchen and opened a few cabinets to see what they had. There were some chocolate tea biscuits that caught his eye. The packet was already open, so he pulled one out and nibbled on it. He briefly considered making himself a cup, but then decided that would be overkill. One dramatic gesture was enough for today.

He made his way down the hall and into Sherlock’s bedroom. A thrill always went through him as he stepped over the threshold. The bed was sloppily made up, sheets tossed haphazardly to the four corners and pillows slumped against the headboard.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Jim muttered, “Sherly…”

He polished off the biscuit, then set about making the bed. He adjusted the sheets and smoothed them out. The supple fabric had a high thread-count. Sherlock liked to indulge in some areas, at least. That made Jim wonder: If he put Sherlock on a cold, hard floor, would he be able to get any rest? If it was for weeks, would he get used to it?

For the finishing touches, Jim plumped the pillows and settled them neatly beside each other. He undid his tie first and draped it over the foot of the bed. He undressed slowly, like a ritual, till he was naked. Laying prostrate, he inhaled Sherlock’s scent and dragged his hardening dick against the sheets.

It was enough for a while, but he needed more friction. He grabbed a pillow and tucked it between his legs, whining softly at the new sensation it provided. He rolled onto his side and folded it around his cock. He wanted to take his time and get there naturally, but he didn’t have much longer before the boys returned. He begrudgingly pulled the pillow away and spat in his hand. He fisted himself to the edge, then rolled over again and rubbed his foreskin against the sheets. He gasped and moaned as he climaxed.

Spent, he sat up and got off the bed. The sheets were tightly woven enough that the cum wasn’t soaking through yet. Jim smiled and straightened out the bed again. He got dressed and went to the bathroom to dab a bit of Sherlock’s aftershave onto a handkerchief for later.

~

Sherlock was barely three steps in when he noticed it. John didn’t seem to, however, as he bustled past him and into the kitchen to make a late lunch. He was still talking about the case, but Sherlock was too distracted to listen. Moriarty’s cologne was lingering in the air. He estimated that the criminal was here not an hour ago. Sherlock had debated with himself about whether he should tell John that their arch-nemesis was popping in every now and then. He hated to worry his friend unnecessarily. Besides, Moriarty hadn’t tampered with anything, poisoned their food, or left any threats. His visits were totally boring, yet fascinating for that very reason.

“Are you listening?” John inquired, “You’re off in your own world.”

Sherlock turned towards him, eyes falling to the peanut butter sandwich John was making.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said and walked over.

John watched in confusion as Sherlock picked up the peanut butter jar and sniffed it intently.

“It can’t have gone bad yet,” John said, “We just bought it last month.”

Sherlock reached for the bread bag next and held it open in front of his face. John was looking at him like he’d lost it.

“Alright?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes.”

If Moriarty was going to poison them, he could have done it a long time ago. Sherlock put down the bag and walked to his bedroom. Upon opening the door, he was greeted by the sight of his bed fully made up, immaculate but for an odd light area on the near side. He glanced around the rest of the room. Nothing was out of place. He stepped closer to the bed, bending to get a better look. The substance on the sheets was dry and opaque. He knew what it was. It was disgusting, but for some reason, he wasn’t surprised.

“Do you want anything?” John called from the end of the hall, and Sherlock felt a surge of alarm.

“No, thank you,” he said, “I’ll just be a minute, John.”

He moved swiftly to shut the door. He didn’t know why he was so afraid of John seeing this. After all, it wasn’t like Sherlock was alright with it. But John didn’t realize the complexity of his relationship with Moriarty. He didn’t understand the nature of the flirtatious quips they exchanged. He didn’t know the thickness of the tension when they were in a room alone. And, perhaps, it was better that way. Sherlock himself didn’t fully understand it. Even with his grey morals, he felt ashamed. He liked the attention that Moriarty gave him, was flattered by the “gifts,” the death threats, all of it. It was sick.

Sherlock had never felt that kind of attraction before. He didn’t think he ever would, and that was fine. It was only after he met Irene and Moriarty that he started to question. Of course, the exceptions would be two people entangled in a treacherous criminal web, one of whom wanted to destroy him. He didn’t know if he would ever want to “have dinner” with either of them, but he felt that thing some people would call romantic.

He got tired of trying to grapple with his feelings, so he pulled out his phone and scrolled till he found the last number Moriarty contacted him from. The conversation, from four months ago, was rather banal.

_ M: See the news? - JM _

_ S: No. Playing chess _

_ M: With yourself? Tell me who wins _

_ M: MP just resigned. The Bratton one _

_ S: You? _

_ M: Someone has to take his place _

_ S: Boring _

_ M: Just wait and see _

_ M: You should know by now that daddy never disappoints _

Sherlock hadn’t responded. He read the news. Bratton resigned over a fraud scandal. He made a soft admittance and left quietly. The MP that replaced him was a standard politician, nothing seemingly special about her. Sherlock was still waiting for something to happen.

Sherlock’s thumb hovered over the keys.

_ S: Are you there? _

He took a second to examine the rest of the bed. His pillow smelled of sweat and…

His phone lit up.

_ M: Kept this number in case you came back  _ 😔

_ S: I don’t appreciate your little surprise today _

_ M: Oh don’t be like that. Letting you know i’m thinking of you xx _

Sherlock began to type, “I already know that,” but deleted it.

_ S: It’s not polite. I thought we had an etiquette _

_ M: I’ll clean it up next time _

_ S: Next time?? _

_ M: You can help me _

Sherlock stared at the screen as he processed the text.

_ S: No chance _

_ S: Why do you keep coming here? _

He didn’t realize what he said until a few seconds later, but Moriarty was already answering.

_ M: Well it feels quite good you know? _

_ M: I like to see how you’re getting on. What kind of fun things are in your fridge. Those biscuits are very nice by the way _

_ S: Stay out. _

_ M:  _ ☹️

Sherlock shoved the phone in his pants pocket, determined not to look at it for a few hours. He pulled everything off the bed and gathered them into a bundle, which he stuffed in a laundry bag and carried out the room. John looked up from his phone. He was eating the biscuits.

“You’re doing laundry? You  _ sure _ you’re alright?”

“No need to worry,” Sherlock said breezily, “I’m an adult, aren’t I?.”

At the laundromat, he sat on a bench and watched the linen spinning inside the machine. His phone was like a weight in his pocket. Moriarty wasn’t the type to end a conversation without the last word. When the pillows went in, Sherlock lost his will and pulled out the phone. There were two more messages, six minutes apart.

_ M: If it makes you feel better, i’d let you do the same thing to me. I’d even give you directions _

_ M: You can’t keep me away. I want what’s mine. Just remember no one loves you like i do _

The rational part of Sherlock’s brain wanted to focus on the directions part of the statement. Moriarty dangled the location of his hideout like a carrot. But what Sherlock was really fixated on were the simple words: “loves you.”

Moriarty had never said it aloud. Or written it, for that matter. It produced a strange feeling in Sherlock. Pleasure? Fear? This was a new puzzle to turn over. He was getting in his own way. As the game grew more dangerous, the circumstances might call for a hard decision. Could he make it? Would he be alright with Mycroft or John hurting Jim?

He looked up at the machine in front of him, for once wishing he couldn’t think.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments are appreciated.


End file.
